#coldflashchallenge

Barry’s fangs poke out his lips. “I wanted to see you. ‘Cause we’re also kinda, you know—”

Snart’s eyes narrow. “Barry.”

“Together.”

“I never said we were together,” the alpha snaps.

Barry’s got a dopey smile on his face. “Len.”

“What.”

“We’re holding hands.”

Snart yanks back like he’s touched a hot pan.

“Admit it. Your wolf sees me as your—”

“Allen.”

“Mate.” Barry takes a fry from Snart’s plate. “Does that mean the Rogues will listen to me?”

Snart’s smirk shows off his own canines. “If they do, then that means your little team has to listen to me.”

Barry nearly hisses. It comes out as a strange sort of sniff. “Never mind. Most of the Rogues hate me anyway.”

“Well, you did lock ‘em up.”

“Oh come on! When are you gonna let that go?”

“When they let it go. I like to think of myself as a strict-but-fair type, but sometimes the grudges of my pack can become mine.”

Barry’s smile’s back. “Yet you still hold my hand.”

A mish-mash rainbow of all different shades, ages, and sizes litter every wall. Scattered throughout the floors are more shelves, standing like proud clothes racks. The books are organized by the places or people they were stolen from, and each Rogue earned their own floor if they snatched enough tomes. The first floor is made of what the Rogues have stolen together, and is by far the largest. All kinds of books reside there, magical and nonmagical, and their combined smell can have a nasty right hook if you’re not prepared.

It’s the top floor that draws Barry tonight. Central City’s nightlife has come out to play, so nobody looks twice as he lands his broom with unrivaled speed. This time, the Gallery presents itself as a one-story dry cleaner’s, inconspicuous but for the blue door and its pointed arch.

It opens before Barry can so much as hop off.

“You’re perpetuating stereotypes, Barry,” Leonard Snart says with his usual sharp nasal, “Bad enough people can’t distinguish a sorcerer from a witch.”

Barry smiles sheepishly. “It’s a family heirloom, Snart.”

Snart adjusts his opaquely framed glasses. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard that. What do you want?”

Barry sets his broom on his shoulder. “I need a book on pausing time.”

Snart’s eyebrows rise to his widow’s peak. “Changing the past gettin’ too boring for you?”

Barry’s smile has vanished, replaced by a thin line of tension. “If I don’t at least have a backup plan, Iris will die.”

Snart leans against the doorframe. “My, my, my. The fast-flyer isn’t fast enough to stop death. And I thought I’d seen everything.”

“Snart, you and your Rogues have way more magic in your Gallery than anyone on the planet.”

“You’ll be turnin’ my head with flattery.”

“I’m serious. If anyone’s gonna have a book on time spells, it’s you.” Barry’s fingers clench around his broomstick. “Please. I need your help.”

A slow smirk grazes Snart’s face. “Well. Who am I to turn down such pretty words?” Before Barry can perk up, he holds up a finger. “But while I’m pleasantly surprised by your attempts to actually thinks something through, all magic comes with a price. Disrupting time has already cost you dearly.”

“You have something, though, right?”

Snart tilts his head, eyes flicking over his shoulder. “I do have one book that could help. I nabbed it from the Time Masters’ wellspring.”

“Then I’ll pay it, whatever it is.”

“Careful, Barry. Words have power. You should know.” Snart pushes off the door. “Step into my office.”

The Rogues shoot Barry suspicious looks on every floor. For once, Barry ignores them, focusing instead on the sweeping back of Snart’s black coat. He’s got lots of coats and parkas, one for every occasion. Tonight, he’s wearing the one with pointed lapels, like some evil mastermind from a cartoon.

They reach the top floor. Snart’s floor. It’s bedecked in rich blues and a snowstorm for a ceiling, with rich dark woods for the bookshelves. In the very back, there is a compartment Barry’s never seen before: a diamond pane door made of iron, runes, and string.

Snart runs his fingers over the string. It’s pure white. “Laid out to catch winter’s first breath. Ices prisoners in its tracks.”

“Prisoners?” Barry says.

Snart smirks. He double taps the glass.

Blue light explodes inside, but the case holds. Chains rattle violently, accompanied by wild banging.

“What is that?” Barry hisses.

Snart closes the distance between them. “That is what you’re looking for. The Book of Oculus. My—especial favorite.”

Barry can’t help looking past him. The light continues to writhe. “How did you get it in there?”

Snart’s eyes suddenly look incredibly old. “I got my ways, kid.” Then he crosses his arms and the look is gone. “I can get it out and cooperative, especially if I’ve got lightning magic close by.”

Barry heads for the cage. “Then let’s get it out.”

Snart steps in front of him. “Not so fast, Flash. You want access to that book, you have to give me something first.”

Barry huffs. “What do you want, Snart?”

“Many things. But I’ll settle for some of your lightning.”

Barry freezes. “What could you possibly want with my lightning?”

The mischief in Snart’s eye is far from reassuring. “There’s a spell I’m aimin’ to cast next full moon, and while I have contingencies, your magic and mine would do wonders.”

“What spell?”

“Relax. First rule of the Craft: harm none.”

“Since when do you take that seriously?”

“I’m still a warlock, ain’t I? Don’t worry your little red boots about it. Nobody’s gonna die.”

“Coming from you,” Barry says, “that’s a cold comfort.”

Snart grins. “Gotta keep the theme. You know how it is, lightning boy.”

A returning smile comes unbidden. “I need to know the spell you’re using.”

“You also need that book. Which is more important to you? Iris’ life, or a spell I cast?”

Barry sobers. “Fine. How do we do it?”

Snart smugly appraises him. He holds out his hands.

Barry raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Afraid of a little chill?”

Another smile peeks out. Barry takes his hands.

Snart maneuvers them so their hands are vertical, fingers clasped. “Manifest your magic. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Barry closes his eyes. The world’s frequencies open to him—a million, billion, trillion crackling currents to focus on. It had taken months to train his concentration, though it would have taken years if Thawne hadn’t changed the timeline. But he can’t think about him, or the lights in the Gallery might blow out.

While Barry usually thinks of Iris’ smile, what comes through is the cold of Snart’s hands. They’re unrelentingly freezing even in the summer heat—which explains the man’s wardrobe—and it makes them a solid presence in the midst of countless volts. Once he notices, he can’t stop, and neither can his magic.

“Oo,” Snart’s voice hums, “tingles.”

Barry opens his eyes, knowing they’re jolting with his lightning. “Is that enough?”

Snart smiles. “Not quite. Perhaps a more—direct conduit will suffice.”

His lips are somehow colder than his hands. Barry shivers. He knows he should do something about this, but the fact is Snart’s cold feels amazing. It grinds his fickle lightning to a controlled halt, and although that should feel like a sledgehammer, it’s a balm Barry didn’t know he needed. Like all the chaos and hurt of the last however-long is soothed under a coat of snow—not gone completely, but enough that Barry can actually pause and breathe.

Snart tongues open his mouth easily enough. Barry’s lightning goes willingly, though it’s only a few strikes before the pull fades. Just like that, they’re done.

Barry keeps kissing him. He’s not sure, but he might be making some embarrassing noises. He’s definitely cupping Snart’s face, and those cold hands are at his hips. He’s never experienced a true conjoining of opposite magics. Isn’t it supposed to be painful? Aggressive? They’re getting into it, yeah, but the competition is geared towards something lighter—the teasing kind of fun cat and mouse they annoy each other with all the time.

It’s. It’s really nice.

When Snart finally breaks away, they’re both panting with bruised lips.

Snart certainly looks like the cat got the mouse on this one. “Well now. I was right.”

Barry has to swallow twice before his voice works again. “About what?”

“You do have a bad side.”

Barry scoffs. “You got what you need?”

“And then some.” Snart nips his bottom lip. “Now then. You have a pretty woman to save.”

“I mean—we’re not an official thing,” Barry says, “y’know, she’s got Eddie, and—and stuff.”

“Now,” Len eyed the, nearly neon, form next to him before turning his back to his plans. “Should I really be doing what exactly, Barry?”

“Le-n,” Barry whined, lips dipping down into a pout as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t play coy, be serious.”

Smirking, Len flicked his eyes over again before arching a brow at the ghost, “But I’m so good at it, and aren’t you always telling me to go with my attributes?”

“You know what I mean,” Barry narrowed his eyes at Len, bottom lip sticking out even further.

Rolling his eyes, Len couldn’t help but let out a short, breathy chuckle as he moved his focused towards the papers spread out on the table before him. “This artifact Cisco and Raymond believe could bring you back will be on display at the Central Museum next month. It’ll be showed off for nearly three weeks before it’s packed up and shipped off to Keystone for another three weeks.”

“Len.”

“This is the best shot we have, Scarlet,” Len tried to keep his voice quiet, but it came out more hard, tight in an attempt to keep utter control over his emotions.

(Not that Len had any real thought that he would keep control. Since Barry’s…accident he’d been having a little –lot– of trouble keeping his normally cool control.)

“Len,” Barry started to reach out but stopped himself short, not wanting to see the crushing look that always flashed across Len’s face when his hand went right through Len’s body.

“This WILL work. And then you’ll be back and we’re going on a long, LONG vacation.”

“But what if it doesn’t work? Len, they said there was a low chance of success.”

Barry couldn’t help but jump when Len slammed his fist down onto the table, before floating back a few steps, his eyes wide, though he wasn’t frightened, he was worried. Worried about how hard Len was running himself into the ground, how hard he was pushing himself looking for an answer to bring Barry back.

“Lenny,” Barry whispered, hands once again reaching out before stopping short of tracing his fingertips over Len’s cheek. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

The man has a threadbare cloth tied over his eyes, but he still somehow sprinkles mini-marshmallows into a mug of hot cocoa with perfect precision. His shirt, which might’ve been white once, is just as filthy, as are his pants. He doesn’t have shoes. As he puts two more marshmallows in, Barry notices the man also has cloth tied around both his palms.

“Put the bat down, Barry,” the man drawls.

Barry starts. “How do you know my name?”

The man smiles without teeth. “Can’t expect to find someone without a name. I’ve been seeing your pretty face for quite a few years now.”

“What? But you’re—I mean—”

“Yes, I’m blind,” the man says, “but I see more than humans do. Like an escape route. Or a young man who’s gonna help me.” He takes a sip of hot chocolate and sighs. “I’ve missed cocoa.”

“Listen, pal, I’ve got a badge and—”

“This timeline’s screwed up, Barry. You have to help me fix it. See, I’m a creature from the cold side of time. I know when things need to slow down, but I can also sense when they’re going too slow.” He stands. “Ever get a little keyed up when lightning strikes? Get restless when you stand still? I can hear your feet right now.”

Barry glances at his feet. Sure enough, he’s bouncing on his toes. He always is—like he’s always ready to run.

The man approaches him slowly. “You’re not supposed to be like this, Barry. The slow life wasn’t meant for you, just like that cage wasn’t meant for me.”

“C-cage?” Barry whispers.

Cold fingers trace his chin. Barry’s heart rate pounds against his ribs. He didn’t think it could beat that fast.

“There’s a little circus a few streets away,” the man says, “When I get my partner back, I’ll have him burn it to the ground. But everything’s clouded until I get you back.”

He unties the cloth on his hands.

Barry drops his bat.

Two glowing blue eyes blink from the man’s palms.

“Central needs the Flash, Barry. Just as the Flash needs the Rogues. I ain’t a hero, but nobody messes with my city.” A snarl curls his lips. “Especially my sister.”

“Your sister?

The man holds up his hands. “Remember who you are.”

Barry’s vision whites out.

“…Snart?”

“Welcome ba—”

Barry kisses him soundly. Len’s hands blink rapidly.

“I missed you,” Barry breathes, “I’m so sorry—I thought I could beat Savitar at his own game. But you were right, Len, you were right, I should’ve trusted myself and—I’m so sorry—”

Len’s eyes roll closed. Carefully, he puts his arms around Barry’s neck and tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

“And they say the fae cause problems,” he drawls into Barry’s lips.

Barry smiles. “You cause plenty of problems.”

“I literally can’t see anything because of your screw-ups.”

“Well. Love is blind.”

Len smirks, hanging up his coat. “Cthulu’s progeny, Mick. Don’t tell me you’re not curious.”

“Len, don’t make me be the voice of reason. You know I hate doin’ that.”

“Then don’t be,” Len says, now down to his breeches and undershirt, “I’m goin’ for a swim.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn yah.”

“Duly noted,” Len drawls, and shuts the door.

“Oh, Barry,” Len sings, “come out, come out, wherever you are.”

The ocean vibrates under the force of a bone-quaking rumble. The crew of The Rogue immediately retreats below.

“Paintin’ any ponds red, Red? Haven’t seen you around.”

An eye the size of Len’s ship rolls to the surface. Len’s fight-or-flight instincts shudder. He grins at the pumping adrenaline, stepping onto the ship’s railing and grabbing a rope to keep balance.

“Back now, though. You miss me?”

Another hum, higher, more fervent.

“You know how to make a guy feel special.”

A tentacle rises from the water. It nuzzles Len’s body.

Len pats it. “Yes, hello, Barry.”

The monster trills.

Len rolls his eyes. “Really?” The trill heightens. “Fine, fine. Such a needy little horror, aren’t you?”

He presses a few light kisses to the scarlet red tentacle. A sound not unlike nails on a chalkboard shrieks through the night. Len rubs his ear.

The tentacle wraps around his waist.

“Whoa, there. At least buy me a drink first.”

Massive bubbles rock The Rogue.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Len holds his breath and pats the tentacle twice.